


Kites

by AdeleDazeem



Series: Never Two Without Three [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Archie Andrews the useless man friend is mentioned, Betty Cooper just needs a hug, F/F, What even is canon?, also Alice Cooper being her usual delightful self, because I don’t know how to write /without/ those things, can you feel the fluff tonight, plenty of snark and metaphors, seriously don’t ask me when this takes place in the timeline it just /does/, since this doesn’t take place in a vacuum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 08:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12837717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdeleDazeem/pseuds/AdeleDazeem
Summary: The first time Betty kisses Veronica, she’s angry.





	Kites

**Author's Note:**

> wooooo, these two make me want to jump off a cliff.

It has been a long day.

Archie had apparently slept through his alarm _and_ Betty’s frantic phone calls (she had been _this_ close to throwing a textbook at his bedroom window) and, in consequence, they were egregiously late to first period. So late, in fact, her homeroom teacher counted her absent. She skidded through the door out of breath, frantic, and just a moment too late. Sadly, no amount of pleading on Betty’s part could resolve the situation. Mrs. Morris couldn't call back the attendance once it had been submitted and Betty kissed her award for perfect attendance for the year goodbye.

To make matters worse, the school notified her parents that one Betty Cooper was not present for homeroom. Inappropriate teachers and sexual assault scandals went unnoticed, but of course, Betty missed one roll call and Riverdale High was all over it. An offense, which, in her mother’s book might as well have translated to any of those other misdeeds.

No sooner had the bell rung for the end of first period, was Betty’s cell lighting up with her mother’s phone call. Apparently, the Cooper’s strict no phones at school policy did not apply to Mrs. Cooper calling to scold her daughter for her ‘careless behavior.’

“Honestly, Betty. What were you thinking? No university wants a  _ slacker _ . Is this behavior an effect of your hanging out with that Jones boy?” Her mother sniped, equal parts disdain and disappointment saturating her accusatory words.

Why her mother insisted on referring to every one of her classmates in this derogatory fashion was beyond Betty. She had been in the same class with these kids since kindergarten. She knew for a fact her mom knew Jughead’s name. There was no way she couldn't.

Betty tamped down the eye roll lest Mrs. Cooper sense it through the phone. “I was just late, mom. I didn’t actually skip--”

“Are you making excuses, Elizabeth Cooper?” The tone was sharp. It cut through Betty’s sentence before she could finish.

Betty sucked in a breath. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. It won't happen again. I promise.”

“Good. See that it doesn't.”

The line went dead then, her mother hanging up before Betty could even get out the expected “yes, ma'am.”

Betty could do nothing but grind her teeth as she stared at the blank phone screen. A new text notification from Archie flashed at the top of the screen, no doubt apologizing again for causing them to be late. She was just about to open it, the morning’s first fledgling smile appearing on her face in anticipation of the swath of emojis the redhead no doubt had sent by way of peace offering when a stern baritone interrupted her.

“Miss Cooper. Cell phones away,” her History teacher warned from his position at the door of her next class.

The smile fell from her face as quickly as it had come, replaced by the hot flush of shame at being reprimanded by yet another teacher. She shared this period with Kevin, usually a source of never-ending amusement and enjoyment. Today, however, she greeted him with nothing more than a tight-lipped smile as she slid into her seat, and quickly pulled out a notebook and pen, eyes firmly facing the front of the room.

Her therapist suggested once that she try imagining her emotions as a kite.

“The color or shape isn't important, Betty,” he’d instructed in his sturdy baritone, “Sometimes the kite is small and manageable. The wind is calm and light. It will be easy to control the kite during these times. Other times it will be big, unwieldy. The wind may be rough. It might tug and tug. What is important is that during these times, you remember that you are in control of the kite. Not the other way around."

Truthfully, it sounded bogus. Like something you would read in a self help book in the grocery store check out line. She had bit her tongue and nodded respectfully, at the time; counting the minutes until her session was over and she could go home.

But on days like today -- when the kite, stitched full of her emotions, is bouncing wildly, being buffeted left, right, all over -- she can understand the metaphor a bit better.

She spent History taking diligent notes. Not once did she check her phone. Not even when she felt it buzz in her jacket pocket several times while the teacher’s back was turned, his attention focused on drawing Henry VIII’s line of succession on the whiteboard. In her peripheral vision, Kevin shot her the least discreet look a person could give, his pantomimed expressions alerting her it was his text she had just received. Her eyes stayed glued to the increasingly confusing family tree being outlined on the board, repentant.

All of her penance was for nothing, though when the bell rang and Kevin loudly declared, “I texted you!”

The boy had been too aghast at being ignored to notice the look of extreme disapproval their teacher had leveled at them. Betty caught it head on. Her shoulders slumped even lower than they had before as she exited the classroom. She gripped her textbooks even tighter to her chest.

Kevin had continued his woebegone dramatics unperturbed.

“Some best friend you are,” he had scoffed, giving one of her drooped shoulders a nudge. It had obviously been a joke. On any other regular morning such a quip would have been responded too with an equally sarcastic retort.

Before Betty could whip up the energy for one such response, she was beaten to the punch.

“Well, Kurt Hummel, that's what you get for scraping bottom of the barrel of rejects for BFFs.”

Unfortunately for Betty Cooper, nothing about this morning had been regular. So it would only make sense that the spawn of Satan, Cheryl Blossom, had just so happened to be in the vicinity, insult at the ready.

Really, as far as Cheryl-Blossom-Barbs went, that one had been pretty tame. Any other day of the week, the words would have been dismissed with an eye roll, rolled off the blonde’s back like water off a duck. But as had already been established, today was not just another day in the life of Betty.

At the redhead’s snide words, Betty’s grip on her books tightened, the cover squeaking under her white knuckles. She could feel her control beginning to crack. The reins she usually kept tightly wound around her emotions had begun to slip. The kite was floundering. Anger at the morning from h-e-double-hockey-sticks began to bubble up inside Betty so quickly, oozing through the fissures, she couldn't stop the words erupting out.

“Better than the barrel of monkeys you pull your boyfriends from, Cheryl.”

It was a toss-up, who was more surprised by the sudden retort: Kevin, frozen beside her, or Cheryl and her cronies who had whirled around to glare Betty down or Betty herself.

“What was that, discount Barbie? I could have sworn I just heard you grow a backbone.”

Betty would have liked nothing more than to have held onto said backbone and shot back some biting reply. Unfortunately for her though, years of passivity and avoiding confrontation had her reflexes kicking back in and kicking the stool out from under her feet. Whatever fiery alter ego Betty had just been channeling moments before shriveled up and blew away under the withering weight of Cheryl’s patented HBIC glare.

Cheryl, seeing the obvious shift in Betty’s eyes from fiery defiance to cool meekness, smirked, no doubt sensing she had the other girl on the back foot.

“Oh, no? Guess I must have been mistaken. I should've known better with  _you_.” She sneered out the last word and stepped closer to Betty, her eyes sharp on the tremor that ran through the blonde as she quelled the urge to take a step back. “But just in case I was right: don't bother showing up to practice today. I don't need that kind of disrespect on my squad.”

And with that, Cheryl disappeared in a puff of purple smoke and lightning.

Or something like that. Betty still isn’t too clear on the logistics of high school villainess getaways.

Kevin merely whistled from beside Betty and patted her on her shoulder kindly. “She says just the sweetest things, doesn't she?”

The chuckle Betty had given him in response had been razor thin. She stuffed the mounting sense of defeat down from where it sat lodged like a boulder in her throat and tried her best to shrug off the encounter like Kevin so easily had.

It really was not her morning.

Or her day really. This fact is further compounded when she arrives at the lunch table only to realize in the flurry of chaos that had been their carpool to school this morning, Betty had forgotten her lunch. She must have been so relieved to have finally seen Archie run out his front door to his truck, she had left her lunchbox on the kitchen counter.

She rests her forehead on her backpack on the table and tries very hard to remember why she must keep tight control of her emotions. Her insides feel like a hurricane, that damned kite not faring well to say the least.

“Did I break a mirror in my sleep last night and just not know about it?” She asks the backpack.

The backpack does not respond. Cheryl unfortunately does. “Funny, based on the way you dress, I didn't know you had mirrors in your house.”

How Cheryl always managed to be lurking in the shadows at the worst times, Betty never knew.

Face still in the backpack, she replies despondently, “You're one to talk, Vampira.”

“Easy there, Buffy, you almost sounded like you'd found that backbone again. Or did you just borrow Veronica’s over here?”

Betty looks up to see Veronica sit down next her and breezily start unpacking a bento box, not in the least disturbed by their present company. “Oh Cheryl, I heard Lucifer was missing his lap dog. Better scamper along now; can’t keep Master waiting, can you?”

“Cute. Veronica, you should know though, if you insist on stooping to your girlfriend’s level of insubordination, you can sit out cheer practice next period with her too. If either of you cares about your spot on the Vixens, you'll not show your face until you've learned to respect your superiors.”

With that, Cheryl strides off and Kevin is just muttering under his breath, “superior cu--” when Betty cuts him off.

"If you would please excuse me." Her words are tight, the false nonchalance in her voice a wire stretched taught. She just manages to keep her hands from shaking as she pushes off from the lunch table and stands. A victory, really.

She walks away from the lunch crowd, back inside the school to the quiet hallways. With her shoulders drawn, her gait may as well have been made of stone for how stiff it is.

Her hands unconsciously clench into fists, fingernails drawing familiar red half-moons into the skin of her palms. She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth and tries to focus on the sharp pain in her palms, not the tight feeling in her throat. The boulder of defeat from earlier creeps back up, heavy, as she fights to swallow it down. She needs to keep control. She needs to regulate her emotions. She needs to breathe.

Betty has found that when she gets overwhelmed and frustrated, her anger doesn’t display itself in any of the more volatile manners. She doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t hulk out or go splotchy red in the face. Instead, when Betty finds herself backed into a corner, shitty circumstances snapping at her from all sides, her body’s reaction is, invariably, to cry.

It is beyond humiliating.

And now, Betty can feel the telltale sensations edging up through her body, culminating in an unwanted pressure behind her eyes. If she doesn’t get herself under control soon, there will be tears. Big, fat, humiliating tears.

Her blood pounds loudly in her ears. So loudly, in fact, she doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching until Veronica is already beside her.

“It's just cheer practice,” Veronica offers lightly as she falls into stride beside the blonde. “If anything, we really should be thanking Cheryl for excusing us from her sulfurous presence. Do you know how many rinses it takes to remove the smell of brimstone from my hair after extended exposure?”

And really, honest to God, Betty tries to chuckle at the other girl’s optimistic recap of events. But it's been a long day, so the sound that issues from her throat comes out too miserably reidy to be anything related to good humor. The kite gives a vicious tug; she can feel the string slipping from her hand.

Two things happen in quick succession, then. Betty zones in on each occurrence, tunnel vision now widening to include the dark haired girl beside her. First, Veronica says her name so sweetly, so softly, so soothingly Betty has to pause to recalibrate.

"Betty." It hangs in the air like a life preserver. Bravely extended into the storm of Betty's thoughts.

So Betty stops, which allows for the second thing: Veronica reaches a hand out to one of Betty's fisted ones. The warm fingers are so sure against her skin, unclenching the fist, smoothing the fingers, before threading Betty's with her own. The gentle warmth of Veronica's hand in her own shaking one, unravels Betty's control so quickly she swings around as though jerked to a halt at the end of a tether. Much like that kite of hers.

Then Veronica is looking at her with those deep, caring eyes, and she repeats her name again in that same way and Betty feels herself being dismantled with each careful, softly uttered syllable. Which must be visible in Betty’s eyes because Veronica steps even closer, murmuring a gentle "oh, honey."

From anyone else, the phrase would be condescending. But from Veronica, it’s...nice.

Betty has never been a fan of mushy pet names, overhearing them being purred amongst teenagers, each less original than the last, had made her skin crawl. Hearing one such term of endearment directed at her from Veronica has the opposite effect. It feels right. It feels like a steady hand on her back.

Or maybe that's just the actual hand in her own, the one whose thumb is stroking the back of her hand. Distantly, in a far corner of her mind, the appeal of pet names begins to dawn on Betty. Though she would be loathed to admit it.

The shorter girl is so close to her now, that Betty doesn’t know what to focus her gaze on: Veronica's warm brown eyes, the tiny wrinkle between her expertly curved brows, or the movement of her lips as she breathes the reassuring term of endearment. Her eyes pinball between all three. Her mind skitters along with them.

Veronica always knew just what to say. Veronica always knew just what to do. She always knew just how to carry herself or handle any situation. Life had handed Veronica a basket of lemons and she had used them to turn Riverdale into the classiest lawn party with lemon spritzers. Pearls and all.

Veronica Lodge was the embodiment of poise and control and everything Betty (or her mother, at least) wished she could be. It was intoxicating even in the best circumstances. As Betty wobbles on the edge now, it's mesmerizing.

She wonders what it would be like to be like Veronica. To have just a modicum of that control.

Just a taste.

Betty’s mind trips over that thought. Hangs there.

One minute Betty Cooper is standing in an empty hallway of Riverdale High, seconds away from devolving into an angry blubbering mess due to the day’s events, and the next she is holding Veronica Lodge's hand and leaning in to press her lips to the soft ones directly in front of her.

Life is funny like that, sometimes.

It's just a light press of lips. It lasts a fraction of the time their kiss in front of the cheer squad did. But whereas that one had taken place in front of what might as well have been a firing squad, this one is just between the two of them. The rest of the world is blissfully blank. The hurricane whirring through her mind a few moments ago is still.

It’s a feeling Betty isn't used to.

It's short. Too short, Betty realizes as she pulls back, the edges of her vision refocusing, her thoughts sharpening.

But then Veronica's other hand, the one not wrapped in Betty's own clammy one, is reaching up and tucking a loose strand of hair behind Betty's ear. She traces the curve of Betty's jaw, fingers feather light. It comes to rest on her neck, Veronica’s thumb tucked along the curve of her jaw, palm over her pulse. It grounds Betty, keeps her steady in the here and now.

She can't help but reach her free hand up to rest on the back of Veronica’s. Keeping her there. Keeping her close.

They're in a public place, and anyone could walk past at any moment. She should care about that. Hell, their entire graduating class is 30 yards back on the other side of one set of double doors. She should care that all of the bad that happened this morning is still very much real and still very much a problem.

She should care. But she can't quite seem to.

Because all she can focus on caring about is the color of Veronica's eyes (Betty didn't know such a beautiful brown existed before now). The feel of Veronica's skin against her own, reassuring, not suffocating.

She wonders if this is what Veronica feels like all the time. She wonders if this is what  _ kissing _ Veronica feels like all the time.

Betty shivers.

Which Veronica mistakes for something else.

"Oh, Betts, you're shaking." She squeezes Betty's hand that's still trapped in her own, dangling down at their waists. Betty finds she is mildly disappointed Veronica used her nickname and not the term of endearment from earlier. "Come on. I know just the thing to fix this. This is definitely french fry and milkshake situation."

She removes her hand from Betty's neck so she can start tugging the other girl down the hall towards the exit. She shoots Betty a conspiratorial smirk that has the blonde feeling a little out of breath, as she adds, “And I happen to know a waitress who can hook us up with both."

And Betty really should care about the potential truancy charges her mother no doubt will be ballistic about. But right now, Veronica's hand still firmly in her own, and her lips and skin still tingling from the other girl's touch. She finds she really can't.

The first time Betty kisses Veronica, Betty is angry, so angry she just might cry from frustration. 

As Veronica pushes open the door and smiles back at Betty, Betty decides, unequivocally, this was a better plan of action than crying. Much better.


End file.
